Authors: Sally Clements
*****
Ryan was in trouble. He knew it. He’d never been one for spooning, but the feel of Andie’s soft body, relaxed in sleep curved up against his was wonderful. Dead to the world, she wouldn’t know if he breathed in the faint lemon perfume of her hair like a lovesick sap. Wouldn’t know if his hand played with a lock of her golden hair like a talisman. Curled it around his finger and gripped on tight. Her legs against his, thighs to knees. Her soft breaths punctuating the darkness of the night.
What had started as an irresistible attraction had morphed into something more. He’d meant to make slow and careful love to her, knowing she’d had it tough the past few weeks, and wanting to make the night perfect. The moment she’d demanded they make love, so desperate and demanding, all thoughts of taking it easy had burned up and disappeared. He’d never felt like that before. Never been so…desperate, so out of control. Never wanted to snuggle in passion’s aftermath.
Andie sighed in her sleep.
Ryan released her hair, slid his hand over her ribcage, and closed his eyes.
*****
Sun steaming through the window woke Ryan from sleep. Another dreamless night. He sat up, and scrubbed a hand over his face. The room was empty. He touched the indentation where she’d lain, finding it cold. Relief flowed at the knowledge he was alone with his disquieting thoughts. The dreams were so constantly present that their absence threw him out of kilter, brought home the fact that for many, a peaceful night’s sleep was the norm, rather than an oddity. Being alone was good. It negated the possibility he’d unwittingly reveal a part of himself he wasn’t ready to share—not even with Andie.
In his world, tormented dreams were an inevitable side-effect of allowing a story to penetrate the psyche. Many of the correspondents who arrived at the daily press briefings in the embassy were bleary eyed through an over consumption of alcohol the night before. Drink and reportage went together hand in glove. A necessary evil to get through the days and nights reporting a bloody conflict and the horrors that man perpetrated against man. He’d avoided the bottle, seeing in all too graphic detail how drinking had destroyed talented men and women alike. The old pros propping up the bar in the hotel the press used were always jovial, but dead inside.
Ryan made for the bathroom. The shower’s pounding spray washed away thought, washed away reflection, but pain still lingered. He stuck his head under the spray, breathed in the cloud of damp steam, and tried to quiet his mind.
Andie had grown up without a mother for Emily had rejected the warm safety of home and family to champion another country’s cause, blocking out the alternate reality that she could have lived. Did that future lay in store for him too? He’d considered himself self-contained. Didn’t believe he needed anyone or anything but the chance to report on stories. Awards had been given for his dispassionate reporting and he’d been proud of his ability to disconnect from the tragic events he documented. His report on the aftermath of the bombing in Rexa had been syndicated around the world, with its haunting footage of children and adults caught in the wrong place, at the wrong time, lying bloodied in the makeshift hospital on the outskirts of the city.
He’d been able to report calmly on their pain. Capture their faces and ravaged bodies, and talk to the survivors about their experiences. Being one step removed was part of the job, the only way to survive in the midst of such agony. For years he’d pushed down his emotions—considered himself immune, but they bled out into his dreams.
The dreams had been absent for the past two nights with Andie at his side. Without even trying, she’d changed him. Made it difficult to remain detached in the face of her grief. Now, the veil between day and night was gossamer thin, stretched to ripping. The horrors were in danger of protruding through into his daily reality. The mechanism instinctively used for years to push them back into his unconscious irretrievably broken.
Ryan laid both hands against the cool tiles behind the shower head. Closed his eyes, and surrendered to the kaleidoscope of images that flickered behind his eyelids in an unrelenting show reel. Heat raced through him. The sound of water hammering on the floor of the shower stall sparked memories of a long forgotten thunderstorm, rain streaming down a baked mud wall—terracotta pooling with swirls of blood. Ryan’s arms shook as he pushed hard against the tiles. His chest burned with the effort of breathing. Slowly, he leaned against the cold tiles, and slid down the wall into a crouch.
*****
Andie rotated her shoulders, feeling the muscles roll loose and easy. She twisted her hair up and stuck a chopstick from the kitchen drawer through it to keep it off her neck, then opened the box of eggs brought in from the car.
Everyone could cook—it was a necessary skill to master if you lived alone and wanted to eat. There was one specialty in her culinary toolbox, pancakes. She intended to use it.
She sifted flour into a large bowl, and made a well in the center. Cracked in a couple of eggs, and mixed, watching as the flour clouded the eggs surface and the heavy grains fell from the sides into the thickening batter. Milk and water poured in a thin stream were added and stirred. The shower had stopped. He must be getting dressed.
Andie swallowed, strangely nervous at the prospect of meeting Ryan now the sun was in the sky. In the darkness of the night they’d been totally in sync, bodies melding again and again in every possible permutation of lovemaking. She touched fingers to her heated cheek. She hadn’t been able to get enough of him. Like a potent drug that flooded her system, she’d been completely addicted. Now, in the clear light of day…
Andie strode from the mixing bowl to fetch herself a glass of cold water. Nerves jumped in her stomach. It was ridiculous to feel so nervous, so worried about how he would feel in the morning. Last night had been a stolen moment in time. He would go back to Bekostan, and she’d never see him again. She’d been prepared for that the moment they tumbled into bed—the fact that somehow, sometime during the long night she’d started to long for something more was disquieting, nothing more. She’d dealt with someone she cared about leaving before. She could do it again.
She took a lemon out of the brown paper sack they’d bought at the store on the way to the cottage, and concentrated on slicing it into thin rounds.
The bedroom door creaked. There were heavy, slow footsteps on the stairs, then the kitchen door swung open.
“You’re up early.” Ryan’s smile was forced. He looked pale, washed out and awkward.
Hell
.
“I decided to make pancakes.” The early morning decision to dress in the sexy nightie had been a mistake. In her imagination, he’d smiled with one look at the pale ivory silk. In reality, he glanced away. “There’s coffee.” A point at the coffee machine. “I’ll just get dressed.” She needed to escape. To get out quick before she ran a hand over his creased brow, asked what was the matter.
She
was the matter. The night that filled her with a warm glow of belonging obviously had the opposite effect on Ryan. The sooner she strapped armor over her heart the better.
Ryan’s strong hand caught her upper arm as she passed. “Andie…” Pain was evident in the depths of his eyes. Pain laced with regret. Andie’s stomach flipped as though she was in an elevator that had suddenly plummeted twenty floors. She didn’t want to hear. Couldn’t hide the disappointment on her face if he said the affair was over. Pride demanded she act like an adult and keep her dignity.
“I’ve a busy day today. I want to go through my mother’s stuff. What are you planning?” Her cheeks ached with the stretched, stuck-on smile.
Ryan’s hand fell to his side. “I don’t know.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I guess I should review the news feed.”
“The television?”
“No, on the internet. I have a direct link to the office on my laptop.”
“Okay.” Andie crossed her arms over a chest showing rather too much erect nipple under the circumstances. Her traitorous body hadn’t got the message Ryan didn’t want a repeat performance and leant in, unable to resist his potent attraction.
She stepped away, desperate to escape before he realized how hurt and bruised she felt. “After breakfast we’ll get to work.” The urge to run tingled through her legs. Her calves clenched with the effort of keeping her strides even as she turned away and walked up the stairs. Long years of practice had taught her well.
Later, with Ryan sequestered in the upstairs bedroom, presumably surfing the internet, Andie reconsidered the decision to stay in the cottage. She should just leave—say she’d forgotten an appointment or something, and get out of there before her heart shattered.
But somehow, she just couldn’t. Their lovemaking had been special, but even more special was the emotion that flowed in an unstoppable wave every time she saw him, every time she considered the thought of leaving. Surely they deserved a chance?
He’d been so quiet over breakfast she’d almost picked a fight just to get some sort of reaction. Where had the teasing, flirting, intense man determined to woo her of the night before gone? Gran always warned that men were after one thing. Andie’d made her own mind up about that, not willing to believe all men were like her father, running for the hills at the prospect of commitment. Maybe she’d been wrong.
Andie gritted her teeth. She might feel like running away, and maybe the old Andie would have packed her bag and run out of there, rather than risk rejection. Things were different now. The new, brave Andie didn’t run. She faced her fears.
She clenched her teeth tight. Last night had meant something to him too. The tenderness and care in his eyes hadn’t been faked. Okay, he wasn’t so love-struck this morning, but maybe he was just bad at mornings?
You’re fooling yourself, girl.
Her heart fluttered and dived. She pushed the nasty little inner voice away, and swallowed the bottom inch of cold coffee in her cup. She might as well use the time productively. Andie examined the large cardboard box she’d found in the attic. Ran a hand over the lid, brushing off the smeared remnants of dust that crusted the surface. Then eased off the top.
A little stack of letters tied with faded red ribbon. A battered notebook with a black leather cover. Receipts clipped together with an oversized paper clip. The last time she’d ventured into this box, she’d had her heart broken. Her fingers gripped the cardboard tight. She scrunched her eyes up, and forced away the urge to replace the lid and avoid more pain.
Her mother was dead and gone. If Andie didn’t read the letters, she’d always be wondering. Imagining what they contained. Their contents couldn’t have the ability to hurt her more than she already was, and what was the point of postponing agony—she might as well get it all over with one tear of the bandage.
Her fingers shook as she untied the ribbon, took a letter from the pile, and opened the envelope.
In the first letter, Emily at least made reference to her child, but the following letters confirmed what Andie already knew—her mother had been completely consumed by her job. Through letter after letter, she talked about the women and children struggling to survive in makeshift shelters in the slums of Rexa. Many of their husbands, fathers and sons had disappeared. Andie and her grandmother were shadow figures against the backdrop of these people who were obviously so real to her that she felt their pain, and fully identified with their plight.
For the first time in her life, Andie’s mind shifted to allow a glimpse of another vision of her mother. A woman who cared passionately about the plight of those in jeopardy. Had dedicated her life to try to report their struggles to the world. A small seed of guilt and shame grew inside. For so long she’d resented her mother’s disinterest—been angry that Emily hadn’t been able to settle on her infrequent visits home. As Emily shared her day to day life with her mother on the page, more aspects of what it must be to be a woman reporting in conflict came to light. The unbroken nights. The constant fear, scant rations when camping in the townships. The awful, all pervading presence of death. Home in England must have seemed pale and insipid in contrast.